Murder in Time (8 page)

She rang the bell, and he opened the door. Tall and whiplash thin. Casual clothing, of good quality. Handsome enough in a bony sort of way. Greying prematurely. Laughter lines.

Laughter lines were good.

An attractive personality? Rephrase that. The man had personality.

He wasn't what she'd expected, but then, she hadn't really known what to expect. A weakling who had given Vera up at the first sign of trouble? He'd been eighteen years old, then. This was a man, and a mature man at that.

His eyes were sharp and didn't miss much … such as the fact that she'd shrugged on a jacket which had a button missing. She thought he'd have made a good doctor.

The years had taken him even farther away from Vera-at-the-chippy than they might have done. He looked erudite, charming, steely … and seemed out of place in this humdrum road. He was definitely a ‘Dan' rather than a ‘Danny'.

He ushered her into a brightly painted but bare hall. The only furniture was two good-looking bicycles.
Not
the sort you did the shopping with.

‘Mrs Quicke? The school said you wanted to talk to me about my ride for charity. A long-held ambition of mine, thankfully fulfilled without accident.'

‘Did you have to do a lot of training for it?'

‘Almost every day, yes. I'm glad it's over, in a way. It took up a lot of time. May I say how grateful we were for your earlier gift, which helped us to send our youth choir to the Eisteddfod? Would you care for some coffee? Only instant, I'm afraid.'

‘“Yes” to a cup of tea, if you're making one. That was the first time we've provided money for a school project, but we might do more of that sort of thing in future. The choir did well, I believe. Congratulations.'

The two reception rooms had been thrown into one. More bright paint, more clean-looking cheap furniture, no art or mirrors on the walls, no pot plants. Paperback books, higgledy-piggledy; hardbacks in a solid oak bookcase. More books in piles on the floor. A stack of CDs.

Was this a rented house? There were several items of furniture here which didn't match the image: an antique walnut desk with a laptop computer up and running on it; a couple of good watercolours propped up on the mantelpiece; a La-Z-Boy chair. There were stacks of files in office-type trays. A pile of papers … from school, ready for marking? A telly smaller than she might have expected, a CD player with speakers. No children's toys.

He raised his voice, speaking from a galley kitchen at the back. ‘Apologies for the disorder. I'm renting this place for six months while my own house is being underpinned. Subsidence. One of the consequences of building on clay. How do you like your tea?'

‘No sugar, a little milk.' A rented house. That explained it.

There was a photograph of a dark-haired toddler, a girl, on the mantelpiece between the two watercolours. The fireplace itself had been blocked off, but there was an efficient-looking central heating radiator under the bay window. Curtains also from Ikea.

‘Coming up.' A kettle shrilled, and he appeared with a tray containing tea in matching china mugs – surprise! – and some biscuits on a plate. ‘I'm not terribly domesticated, but I do like a biscuit with my tea.'

Ellie quoted from the nursery rhyme, ‘I do like a bit of butter with my bread.'

Warily polite, he waved her to a seat. The chairs were comfortable enough, and the tea hot. Time to talk. She said, ‘I read about your bike ride in the local paper. Congratulations. I thought you might like me to add something to the amount you collected.'

‘That's good of you.' Warmth in his tone for the first time, but bright eyes said she could have sent a cheque. Why was she here in person?

She felt embarrassed, looked away. ‘All right, I had an ulterior motive and used that as an excuse to get to talk to you. But I did bring a cheque as well.' She fished it out of her handbag and laid it on the coffee table.

He dropped his eyes to look at the amount and produced a real smile. ‘Thank you. That is most welcome.'

‘Twelve years ago—'

He nearly spilled his tea. He set the mug down with care. He put his hands – capable, long-fingered hands – on the arms of his chair. Ellie imagined he'd have no trouble dominating a class or even a hall full of children. He had that intangible thing called authority.

He tried to smile. ‘The night the earth shook?'

‘The night everything changed, and not necessarily for the better.'

‘No, indeed.' His smile faded. ‘Let the past bury the past. I decided a long time ago that I had to draw a line under what had happened and move on.'

‘Unsolved mysteries have a habit of returning to upset the present, and now there's a need for answers.'

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Quicke. I can't talk about it. So, may we change the subject?'

‘Someone has dug up a witness to your father's death.'

That shook him. ‘What? Who? No, I don't believe it.'

‘The witness concerned may not be speaking the truth, but can do a lot of damage even if the case never comes to court.'

‘To court? You mean …? No, surely …! Why would you joke about …? The police …' He controlled himself with an effort. ‘Perhaps you'd better start from the beginning, Mrs Quicke.' A formal tone.

‘I wish I knew where the beginning was. A man has been found who says he witnessed your father's death. He – or she – is prepared to put a name to the person concerned.'

His breathing quickened. He got to his feet and took a turn around the room. She thought that he was used to larger rooms and didn't like being confined to this small space. With his back to her, he said, ‘Who?'

‘A private detective has been paid to come up with evidence against a friend of mine. Such evidence is tainted, but could cause her a great deal of trouble.'

His whole body jerked. ‘Her?' He turned, slowly, to face her.

‘Yes.' Ellie watched him struggle with the name.

‘It can't be …?'

‘Vera, yes.'

He coloured up. A flush that receded only slowly. ‘Well,' he said, in a flat voice, ‘there's a turn up for the books, or, as you might say, a blast from the past.' He went to stand by the French windows that looked on to the garden, hands behind his back, looking up at the sky. So that he didn't have to meet Ellie's eye?

‘Don't you want to hear why she's been accused of murder?'

‘I have no feelings on the subject. I haven't seen her for years. I don't suppose I'd recognize her if I saw her in the street. I wouldn't have thought she'd have … But what do I know? I suppose she might have been caught up in an abusive situation and lashed out, or … Forgive me. I really don't want to talk about it.'

Ellie persisted. ‘I'm afraid it's too late for you to hide your head in the sand. People are telling what they think is the truth, but
their
truth may not be someone else's truth, and … I'm getting into a muddle here. All I know is that a certain person is blackmailing Vera. He says that either she gives him something he wants, or he'll see that she's accused of murdering your father.'

‘Ridiculous!' He pressed his hands over his eyes for a moment. ‘Great heavens above! Has the world gone mad?'

‘Would you be prepared to give me a statement to the effect that Vera had long gone home by the time your father was killed? That should do it.'

‘I … No. I can't do that, not of my own knowledge.' He made a despairing gesture with his hands.

She guessed, ‘You weren't there either?'

‘No. I wasn't.' He turned a frown on her. ‘What is your interest in this, Mrs Quicke?'

‘Vera was one of my cleaners for years. I found her honest, hard-working, quick-witted and reliable. She had a short and tragic marriage, nursing a dying man who left her in rented accommodation and badly provided for. Before he died, he asked me to find some way of helping Vera get to college. My husband and I have a big house on the far side of the Avenue, not far from where you were brought up. Our housekeeper is an old friend but getting on in years, so I asked Vera if she'd like to move in with us and help out. She and her son—'

‘Ah. I thought you were going to miss him out.' So he knew Vera had a child?

‘It would be hard to miss him out. Vera and Mikey have a flat at the top of the house, and they're, well, family. Vera's a great girl who's pulled herself up by her bootstraps. He's an imp, a mathematical genius. Vera's now putting herself through college, part-time. A business course.'

His tone was polite but distant. ‘I'm glad to hear she's making something of herself at last. A business course? Splendid.'

Ellie set her teeth at his condescending tone. ‘Twelve years after she was supposed to start, yes.'

He got the point all right. He put the empty mugs on the tray. ‘Another cup?' And removed himself. To think?

Ellie followed him into a sparklingly clean kitchen. A frozen meal for one was defrosting on the side, next to a coffee-making machine. A glazed back door gave a glimpse of a whirligig clothes drier, festooned with white shirts, in the middle of a neat lawn. ‘You knew she'd had a son?'

‘I'd heard.' His hands were busy. He was making himself a coffee. His brain was probably working overtime.

Ellie said, ‘Can you bear to talk about what happened?'

‘I regret. No.'

‘For old times' sake?'

For a moment he allowed her to see his pain. ‘After what she did to me?'

‘Or was done to her.'

He frowned, not understanding. Didn't he know what had happened in the garden that night?

He made a visible effort to control himself. ‘Mrs Quicke, I really can't help you. The police at the time couldn't find the person who killed my father. You say there's new evidence which incriminates Vera? I thought she'd left long before my father returned home, but I can't give her an alibi for that evening. You must look elsewhere.'

He finished making his coffee and poured it out before exclaiming, ‘Now look what I've done!' He took a step back. ‘I never drink coffee after four in the afternoon.'

‘You feel the need for it?'

He pushed the cup away. ‘No, I don't. Mrs Quicke, what's going on? Why, after all these years …? So much pain.' He tried to laugh. ‘My mother will go spare if it's all raked up again.'

Was he trying to distract her by mentioning his mother? Well, Ellie thought, she should make use of the opening he'd given her. ‘Tell me about her.'

She thought he'd refuse at first, but he'd been jolted off balance. Leaning against the kitchen cupboard and looking out on to the garden, he said, ‘My mother. Well, she's a fragile-looking, self-centred little person with a will of iron. She can't understand why anyone should upset her by opposing her wishes.'

A deliberately cool tone. He loved his mother, yes. But there was a good deal of frustration mixed with the love. And pain? Yes, pain.

He said, ‘My father indulged her, avoided doing anything to upset her. “Take care of your mother, now; she's having a bad day.” That sort of thing. She felt she'd married beneath her. She'd brought money into the family, you see, and was sister to a baronet who didn't even bother to use his title. She'd hoped that young Dr McKenzie would end up in Harley Street, but he turned out to be just an ordinary, old-fashioned GP. No clock-watcher, mind.'

The wind was getting up outside. It might well rain soon, but he made no move to bring the washing in.

‘What was he like as a father?'

‘He taught me to drive. Taught me to appreciate music; jazz, mostly. He was good company. He worked long hours. Perhaps he drank too much. Mother thought so, but I never saw him lose control.'

‘There was some trouble with a neighbour?'

‘The swimming pool? Mother's idea. It cost a fortune. Yes, there was a fuss, something about the height of the new fence, that it ought to have been a hedge, or it had been sited six inches to the left or the right … I can't remember which, now.'

‘Someone was going to sue?'

‘It was talked about, but never came to anything after … after. You must understand that I had just turned eighteen and was about to go to university. I thought of nothing but the summer holidays and Vera.'

He was talking freely now. Good. ‘Your mother was pleased you were going to be a doctor?'

‘I was to fulfil all her dreams. I was to marry the daughter of the baronet, have a practice in Harley Street, and she …? She would live round the corner from Harrods.'

‘Vera was not included in her plans?'

His mouth thinned. ‘No.'

‘It was a Romeo and Juliet romance?'

A glancing, painful smile. ‘Yes, perhaps that's what it was. A youthful fantasy. We must have seemed an odd-looking couple, the naive boy from the big house and the big, bold girl from the chippy.'

‘How was Vera treated by your friends?'

‘Fine. She had a mouth on her, was always ready with a quick retort, or a laugh. She cared about people. She was warm and loving. She was my girl. Or so I thought.'

‘Nobody set out to make her feel unwanted? Nobody special had it in for her?'

A hesitation. ‘Certainly not.'

‘Meaning …?'

A rueful smile. ‘Well, some of my friends didn't think it would last, and they were right, weren't they?'

Maybe. Maybe not. ‘Whose idea was it to have such a big party?'

‘Mother's, of course. She invited my cousins to stay. Sam was older, in his mid-twenties. He was supposed to see to it that the party didn't get out of hand. Daphne was mother's little favourite, seventeen years old. Mother got someone to lay on a buffet, and I organized a disco.'

‘Daphne was your mother's choice for you?'

‘Mother got her own way, as she always did. Unfortunately, Daphne didn't like being married to a mere schoolteacher.'